Torn Apart
by Beff
Summary: On temp? hiatus. I need to replay the game to get my muse back. Ever wonder how Torn developed his magnetic personality and where he came from? Pre-JakII. Edited: Ch.1 Added: Ch.2
1. Another Innocent Girl

Disclaimer: Naughty Dog (power + money). Beff (lame job + nothing of value). See the difference? They own all recognizable stuff. I own Sai and Pon, and their daughter.

Anyways, ever wonder how Torn got to where he was in Jak II? Well, here's my take on it. Reviews and flames welcomed. o.O

A/N - all my chapter titles are the names of songs currently on my playlist. If you can guess who did the song, I'll give you a cookie. (Hint: punk rock) :D

* * *

Chapter 1 - Another Innocent Girl

Torn smiled fondly at his little sister, all of three years old today. She grinned back, and then proceeded to chase her brand-new crocadog puppy. His mother and father stood in the entrance to their small house, right on the outskirts ofHaven's infamousSlums. He knew they were proud of him in their own way, the youngest commander in the history of the Krimzon Guard, and at only 18 years of age.

A hot wind blew a wave of dust low to the ground, spawning miniature dust-devils, similar to their enourmous brethren of the deep desert. A quick glance to the sun confirmed what he already knew – time to get back to the Palace and his duties. He waved a quick farewell to his parents.

Sai, his mother, heavy with the pregnancy of her third child, wiped her hands on her apron before returning the gesture. Her hair, red as her children's, hung free down her back, swaying gently in the wind. Pon, long bald, smiled kindly at his eldest child. Stress showed prominently in the lines around his blue eyes. No fan of the usurper and despotic Baron, his enforced unemployment didn't suit him. Nonetheless, he recognized his son's right to choose his own path. Besides, there were few other opportunities to escape the poverty of Haven City, especially to a child born of the Slums. He had even swallowed his pride long enough to come to Torn's graduation, a feat his son still appreciated.

He turned on his heel, surprising his tiny sister by sweeping her up into a bear hug. He would miss her Naming ceremony, but she had told him it was alright, in her best imitation of her mother's solemn voice. She had just been happy to see him; it had been weeks since his last home visit due to constant patrols and Metal Head incursions. Her understanding had caused him no bit of relief. In a city where the mortality rate was astronimical due to rampant disease and Metal Head attacks, no child was named before three years of age. Anything before that was just asking for heartbreak should the unthinkable happen. Sadly, the fact that Torn's parents had two healty children, with one on the way, was notable in its rareness.

"Hey, kiddo," he mellow voice had a musical quality, a gift from his father. Once a first class singer, he had been censured by the Baron for not conforming to his new 'styles' – where everything revolved around himself. Never one for being blackmailed, Pon had refused to cooperate, and had never sung publicly since his removal from stage. Sai supported the family with her cooking, now supplemented by Torn's weekly paychecks. "Did you have a good time today?"

She nodded vigorously. "Thank you for Puppy!" she giggled, clapping her hands. Her red hair hung in twin braids down her back, tied in little pink ribbons, something he had picked up in the Bazaar. Erol, his second-in-command, had sneered, but he had put them aside just for today. With, of course, some thinly veiled threats to Erol; he couldn't ruin his reputation as a hard-ass, of course.Especially not in front of his second, an ill-tempered bastard by all standards.

"This is my best birthday ever," she whispered in his ear with another giggle before he set her down. She ran to her puppy, named Puppy, her steps kicking little plumes of dust. Sai and Pon leaned closer together and hugged, smiling down at their daughter.

He waved back to his family again, and then mounted his waiting hover. Kicking it into gear, andswitching immediatelyto the upper hover-zone, he turned off towards the Palace, and his awaiting duties with a sigh, knowing it would be weeks before he saw his family again.

* * *

Shorter than I would have liked, yes, and more ready to be posted. As soon as I edit. x.x;;; 

3.11.05 fixed spacing issue.


	2. Watch the Right

Ah yes, my second chapter. Editing is a real pain in the ass though, especially when most of my writing gets done in my developmental psychology or algebra classes. :p

Acually, I'm quite impressed with myself, though that isn't too hard. This is something like 8 hand written pages, so I'm actually happy with the length of something for once. As always, R/R please. Flames gladly accepted.

DevaGlenn - I was thinking Punky Brewster for Torn's sister, and go ahead and use what you will. dance and yay for my first review! To be honest though... the idea for the naming ceremony doo-dad came from a bit of laziness... I wasn't sure what to name her, and I didn't want to get too attached to an incidental character.

Disclaimer: see chapter one. I own nothing, save my plot bunnies of doom. o.O;

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Chapter 2 - Watch the Right

Ashelin frowned as she came from the Throne Room, her ears ringing. Her father was royally pissed off at Torn for something, but he wasn't inclined to share why. Erol seemed to know, though; the sly bastard had been grinning and leering all day. Making her father angry was not considered a way to achieve a long life.

She grabbed the first Guard to cross her path. "Where's Commander Torn?" she demanded, glowering at the faceless trooper.

The Guard seemed to flinch away from her grasp, the smell of fear almost palpable. "Ma'am, I don't know, ma'am. He took a day of liberty today, w-went into the c-city," he stuttered in his nervousness. His body was rigidly stiff, and he held his arm level in a full formal salute.

"Do you have a current duty assignment?"

"N-no, ma'am," he was ramrod still. "I was on messenger duty, but finished."

Ashelin considered. "I want you to wait near the zoomer garage for the Commander to return, then tell him to find me first before heading into report. But do it discreetly. Understood?"

"Ma'am, yes ma'am!" he turned and fled at full speed toward the garage.

The Baron's only child and heir slouched against the cold stone wall of the dim passageway, massaging her temples. She could feel the massive, throbbing pressure building behind her eyes, the sure sign of a stress headache. She only hoped her chosen Guard would catch Torn in time.

* * *

Torn parked his zoomer in its normal corner, stashing the keys deep into his pocket. His civilian clothes looked massively out of place here in the KG's main garage, the browns of his leggings clashing with the blood-red uniforms and trim everywhere. Truth be told, he no longer truly felt comfortable in civvies - after all, his entire adult life, since he was fifteen, had been consumed by the Guard. His uniform was _part_ of him, and he couldn't get used to _not_ wearing it. 

He frowned at the emptiness of the garage. The normally bustling space was devoid of life, save for two lone mechanics adjusting the gravity repeller of a damaged zoomer on the far side. He smiled as one of the techs clung to a steering fin, some thirty feet up in the air, cursing down at his partner, who was barely holding his laughter in.

The lack of life in the garage did disturb him, though. He had ordered no missions in his absense, and the Baron disliked personally getting his hands dirty. Ashelin wouldn' thave gone above him, so that left one person with enough authority to move all his troops. _Erol._

With a surge of effort, Torn forced down a flash of acid indigestion. Soething about Erol didn't strike him as quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Ashelin noticed it too, but generally dismissed it because Erol was an ass.

As he gathered his personal affects from the zoomer, he smiled at the fond memory. Ashelin had decked Erol handily the first time he had propositioned her. Normally, no one was stupid enough to try a second time. Erol had tried six _more_ times, and Ashelin had gifted him with a broken nose the last time. The look on his face as he stormed off had been priceless. It even amused the Baron, sadistic bastard that he was. It sickened Torn, who viewed Ashelin as a younger sister. It had been her who had sheltered him from the fallout of his father's censureship. She had helped him rise through the ranks, and despite the rumors, their relationship was strictly platonic.

It was a long walk from the zoomer parking to where his exit was. The clinking of bootheels lulled him into deeper thought and he nearly walked into the Guard blocking his path.

"Commander Torn?" he asked breathlessly, as if he had just finished a long run with a swarm of Metal Heads on his heels.

He jerked to awareness at his name, then realized why the young man was so uncertain. Few, if _any_ of his troopers had ever seen him in civvies before. _Must be like culture shock_, he mused. "Yes?" he answered instead, brushing a stray dreadlock from his face with his free hand.

The trooper sagged in what Torn guessed was relief. "Sir, Commander Ashelin wishes that you get in touch with her before reporting in, sir." The words came out in a rush, and it took Torn a minute to grasp what he had said.

Then he frowned. Ashelin wasn't big on cryptic messages. "Anything else?"

"N-no, sir."

"Dismissed then. Thank you," he bit his lower lip to hide his nerves. Something _enormous_ must be up; Ashelin's message coupled with the absense of scores of his troopers suggested as much.

The nameless trooper scampered off, amazed that he had not had to face either commander in full hard-ass mode. It truly was an amazing day.

* * *

A few floors down, where few went on a regular basis, Torn stowed his gear in his spare washroom locker, then pulled his spare uniform out. Lockers were so useful to have, he had one on almost every floor. One could never tell, especially with the blood-thirsty Praxis, when one would need to change from a working uniform to a dress one. Or just take off a blood-stained one. For one who reveled so much in violence, the Baron was strangely squeemish. 

He stripped off his leaper-leather boots off, his pants quickly followed. He creased red uniform leggings took their place. The discarded, dusty civivie pants were quickly wadded into a ball and shoved back in. Regulation boots quickly took their place.

He yanked his tan tunic over his head, then shuffled towards the row of sinks. Not wasting the time to adjust the water's temperature, he turned both knobs indiscriminately, then plunged a cloth under the stream and wrung it out.

Flesh puckering, Torn pulled the cold fabric across his chest and arms, then rewet the cloth and rewrung it. Dirty water pooled over the drain before it was swept away.

After two more repetitions, Torn scrubbed at his face, then groped blindly for a towel. It slithered off the hanging rack and into his hands with a low _hiss_, and he briskly dried himself.

His eye-wateringly bright tunic was quickly on, feeling oddly starched against his clean skin. He straightened everything quickly, then shoved everything he wouldn't need immediately back into his tiny locker. A gunbelt his the last addition to his outfit, and he strapped it tightly around his middle, then checked the safety on the morphgun it carried.

Satisfied, he turned toward the mirror, then sighed. His blue eyes peered out from beneath red dreadlocks. Lines around those eyes made him look older, marring his pale skin. His dark tattoos looked like livid bruising, but those he ignored. Those were a symbol of his rank, and despite his personal dislike for the Baron, he treasured them deep down in his soul. Otherwise, he just looked tired, dark smudges lying beneath his eyes. Again, nothing to be done about that. At least he looked passable enough to see the Baron. He tugged everything down again; it wouldn't do for his troops to see him looking slovenly. It didn't suit his image.

Leaving the locker room, Torn fished through his pocket for his communicator. Dialing in Ashelin's frequency, he shifted nervously in the abandoned corridor, wiggling his toes inside his steel-toe boots.

Finally, she answered, and a tiny projection of her head appeared, floating in the air above the communicator. "Torn! Where've you been?" she sounded strained. Her hair was drawn severely behind her, but her green eyes held a twinkle of compassion.

He frowned. "I took a liberty day. Remember? My sister's Name Day?"

She shook her head absently. "Torn, listen. My father is pissed off about something. I don't know what, other than it involves you. Act nonchalant, go start your normal duties; I don't want him to know that I tipped you off."

Torn's frowned deepened. "How bad?" he asked, familiar with the Baron's tantrums and mood-swings.

Ashelin sighed, her uniform moving fluidly with her motions. "To be honest, I don't even know. Erol is involved, though I don't know how or how deeply. Just watch your back, ok?"

He nodded. "Understood. I'm going to make an appearance then. Keep your fingers crossed."

"Be careful, Torn." She gave him a wan smile, then shut her connection. He did the same, but his frown remained. Anything with Erol involved was sure to be bad business.

* * *

As soon as he made an appearance in a main hallway, troopers suddenly appeared. 

"Commander, the Baron wants to see you!"

"Sir, you're ordered to the Throne Room, sir!"

"He's waiting for you."

Everyone seemed to know, and he found it strangely odd that none of his troops would look him in the eye. Soemething big was definetely up. He didn't even bother correcting the lack of respect that some were giving him; that he would rectify later.

But now he stood outside the door to the Throne Room, pointedly ignoring the two elite Shock Guards that held their posts on either side of the door. They did likewise, looking all the world like statues. _Let them_, Torn thought grumpily, feeling a hollow pit in the bottom of his stomache. _What a day_.

With a sigh of trepidation, Torn pushed the door open, not knowing exactly what to expect.

* * *

A/N - like it? phew I typed it all in one long stretch, so now my fingers are kinda tingly. You know the routine, R/R please. 

Incidentally, the timing of this story is about 3 years before Jak makes his appearance in Haven. If Torn is 18 in this, he would be about 21 when Jak and Daxter show up, and then 23-ish when Jak starts running amok. Ashelin is a year younger, so I estimate. Also, if Jak is 16 when he appears in Haven, he would be 18-ish when he escapes. I think that makes the ages about right, but if someone else comes up with anything different, let me know.


End file.
